


Smoke Signals

by Shadow_Logic



Category: Sky High (2005)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Chinese Food, F/M, Friendship, Romance, Secret Identity, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:48:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21845038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_Logic/pseuds/Shadow_Logic
Summary: Smoke gets in your eyes when you're in love. It gets even more complicated when there's a dashing, young, anonymous arsonist in the mixture.
Relationships: Warren Peace/Layla Williams
Comments: 25
Kudos: 166
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	1. Sparks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosestone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosestone/gifts).



It all started at the Paper Lantern.

It was the place where Layla waited for Will one night in vain. She ordered the Mapo Tofu that night, then picked at it for hours, carefully separating the soy protein from the vegetables, then putting each vegetable into a pile. She'd begun to wonder if she'd be able to sort them by color before closing time when the busboy stopped by.

He hadn't spoken a word to her all night, though Layla had only noticed because she'd had literally nothing to do _but_ wait and hope since 7 PM. She'd noticed the cook was a woman in her 40's who seemed like she was kind - at least the way she pronounced Chinese was kind, even though Layla didn’t understand a single word. She'd noticed there was only one waiter, a young woman in a pretty yellow uniform whose nametag read "Yun Tan". Layla had noticed customer's buttons, shirt colors, what they ordered and how long they took to eat.

She'd noticed the very silent busboy had a streak of red in his hair, of course. He made eye contact with nobody and went about his job without speaking to anyone, though he seemed to understand when the cook yelled at him.

Layla looked back down at her plate and nudged the soy cubes aside.

"You're gonna want that wrapped up?" Said a young man’s voice. It was low pitched, deeper than Will’s.

Layla looked up - and balked. It was the busboy.

She'd thought, from how he barely looked up when customers deigned to speak to him, that he may not speak English at all. It had been an idle theory, however, and she let it go at once. _Assume makes an ass out of u and me after all._

"Oh. Sure."

"Been working on that for a while."

"Yeah."

The busboy picked up her dish and set it on his tray, then made to turn towards the counter's flip gate.

Maybe it was the hours of silence. Maybe it was temporary madness. Either way, Layla opened her mouth and let loose with: "what would you do if the love of your life stood you up without explanation?"

The busboy turned and looked down his nose at her. "Then I'd stop thinking of her as the love of my life," he said, then walked off with Layla's food. There was conviction in his stride, and Layla didn't even think about attempting to continue the conversation.

_I guess he feels strongly about being let down by people._

* * *

The next day, not five minutes after apologizing not quite enough for standing her up, Will told her about taking Gwen Grayson to Homecoming. 

Her heart in shreds, Layla did her best to tune out Will as he prattled on about Mad Science class (with Gwen) and his parents (meeting Gwen) and Homecoming (with...three guesses who). It wasn't cruelty. She just honestly didn't think she could take an entire bus ride's worth of little reminders of how _not enough_ she was.

She had half a mind to tell Will she was going with someone else to Homecoming. It might not make him turn around and finally realize that Layla was the love of his life, but at least it'd help convey to him that no, she wasn't chopped veggie liver. But Layla's social connections at Sky High were limited: really, it was down to Ethan and Zach.

Ethan was a perfectly sweet boy, but he was too much of a pushover. He'd out her (half baked and stupid Layla, really) plan in a minute if he thought Will would dislike the idea, even remotely.

Zach would probably be more amenable to the ruse, but unfortunately, Layla had an eye for crushes at this point: if she asked Zach, he'd either mistake it for an actual date or play it up, and Magenta would never forgive either of them. Layla did _not_ want to risk the one person who could actually be girly with (well, as girly as Magenta could get) over Will Stronghold.

She sighed and clutched her book bag closer. _Guess all I have left is patience and forbearance._

Well, that wasn't so bad, right? Pacifism was all about patience, and there had to be something good about dying on - or missing prom for - the hill she'd chosen to defend, right?

Right?

* * *

Instead of trying for a date, or moping at home, or submitting to the torture of going by herself to sigh forlornly at Will's back, Layla went back to the Paper Lantern.

This time, she ordered within minutes and tucked into her Kung Pao tofu without raising her eyes. She didn't look at the other customers, the cook or the waitress, determined to make this time about her and her food.

She needed a schedule that didn't have 'being Will Stronghold's constant hanger-on' penciled in for every hour of the day.

She could see the busboy from last time, wandering through the rows of tables with his tray and his towel, right at the edge of her vision. She thought of his words from last time and quietly despaired. _What was I thinking, dumping pretty much everything on some poor defenseless guy just going about his work? That was so rude of me!_ Layla had smiled at him sheepishly when she came in, but she’d thought to lay low for once, leave the guy in peace. But a tall, dark figure materialized beside her table shortly after she finished.

"Alone again, hippie?"

It was weird, she thought, that he radiated such warmth. Not metaphorical warmth, oh no, the literal kind, like standing close to a space heater. He didn’t act like someone with a fever - and someone with a fever of that temperature would have hardly been able to move. How strange.

"Yep," Layla responded brightly, opting to smile through her embarrassment. "There's a dance at school in about two weeks and the love of my life is going with someone else. Someone he called the most awesome girl in all of the school. So I decided I’d try being happy on my own." Now that left a bitter taste in her mouth. Layla felt her smile collapse in on itself.

The busboy blinked at her. He didn't say a word, but Layla could read the "the hell are you sharing this with me" in his slightly creased eyebrows. Darn, she’d gone and done it again! 

"Sorry I keep - _exploding_ all over you like this." Layla didn’t understand it herself. It was just so hard when all of her closest friends were already Will's friends too. She wanted - _needed_ someone who wasn't a part of Twelfth Night, the high school edition, to talk to. And for lack of any new friends, it seemed she had latched onto the first innocent bystander she'd run into.

The busboy rumbled in a way that might have been an 'it's OK' or a 'fuck you' or a 'meh'. But the way he lingered beside her table for a moment suggested just a little bit of the former, if plenty of the latter.

“I really am sorry. You’re an awesome listener, by the way.”

Busboy ‘hmphed’, like he disagreed, but he didn’t move. Layla sighed. Busboy moved on eventually, but all throughout that night, he would walk by the table and quietly acknowledge her. It was hardly more than a nod, sometimes even a passing impression of heat, but it assuaged Layla’s lonely, broken heart just a little.

* * *

Layla all but moved into the Paper Lantern after the party. That one party. The one she wasn’t invited to. The one at which her best friend and first love told his g-g-girlfriend that she, Layla, was some sort of pity case. Where he set years of friendship on fire and then acidized the soil to make sure she couldn't take root again.

(There were plants that thrived in acidic soil, but Layla was definitely not one of them). 

This time, she didn’t order anything. She set her jacket aside, sat heavily down onto her favorite chair at her favorite table and lowered her forehead to the tablecloth. 

A scratching of chair legs against tile made her raise her head. The busboy was sitting across from her.

“Cook sent me over to tell you to order or leave.”

Layla felt her tear ducts filling up again. Her eyes stung. Was she doomed to not be wanted anywhere that night?

“So I ordered you that Kung Pao thing from last time,” the busboy went on blithely, “seemed to go down better than the Mapo Tofu from Mope # 1.”

“Huh? Wait - but I don’t have any money!” As she’d meant to just pop in on Will, Layla didn’t even have her purse on her.

“Consider it a gift.”

Layla gaped at him, torn between gratitude and profound embarrassment.

The busboy raised an eyebrow at her. “Shit, don’t tell me I’ve just gone and made you sadder. I was hoping getting a free meal would stop the waterworks.” It was the most words she had ever heard him speak, and the most emotion he had ever displayed. Even though she felt like her heart was hanging from a tree, Layla was pretty shocked.

“...thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“What?”

Busboy rolled his eyes heavenwards, then he fixed her with a stern glare. “That’s the drill, isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question.Layla opened and closed her mouth like a fish. 

“You should know it, seeing as you were then one that started it.”

“I... I come and unload my drama on you without warning?”

Busboy nodded sternly. Layla felt her fair skin flush Amaryllis red. Busboy’s eyes flicked to the wall clock over the kitchen’s pick-up window. “Tonight looks bad, and it’s late. So you better start, because I’ll get very, very cranky if I have to stay here after closing.”

His words were meant to be menacing, Layla knew, and she might have commented on his efforts to keep up the bad boy vibe even as he volunteered to comfort a lonely girl, but her fight with Will had put a leak in the dam of her soft emotions. So, withholding the ‘you don’t have to act all tough’ pep talk, she took a deep breath and told him.

Busboy really was a good listener. He nodded or shook his head or even raised an eyebrow at the right parts of the story. Layla was as honest as she could: with Sky High and most other aspects of metahuman life protected under the Clause of Secrets of the Metahumans Act, she couldn’t tell him the story in full, but it was surprising how much of what had happened translated well to ordinary teenage experience.

When she was done, Busboy brushed a stray leaf from some condiment off the table indolently. “Looks pretty simple to me. Your friend needs a reality check, but it won’t happen anytime soon unless something drastic happens. So, you should worry about yourself for a bit.” He ended his statement with a shrug, as if it were that easy.

Layla expected something to that tune. What’s more, she was pretty sure her mother would have told her something like that, if she’d dared to speak about Will to her - which Layla absolutely wouldn’t. She could protect his image in her mother’s eyes: the last kindness she could extend to Will Stronghold if he insisted on not involving himself with her anymore.

Yun Tan’s arm stretched into view to place a cardboard box in front of her. Layla realized she felt a little less miserable, enough to go home and eat and maybe have just one long cry. She might even sleep. _It’s still better than what I was expecting for earlier in the evening._ She lay her chin on the table and gazed out at the busboy with a little gratitude. _He was rough and he was impatient, but hey, he stayed!_

She smiled at him. “Thank you.”

Busboy looked terribly taken aback. He frowned at her, hard. “You’re really weird, hippie.”

“My name’s Layla, by the way.”

“Cool.” He pushed himself back with his legs and started to leave.

“Your name’s ‘Cool’?”

Busboy looked back at her, mildly outraged. “You’re either real witty or real innocent, hippie.” He slung his towel over his shoulder and picked up his tray from the next table over. “I’m Warren.”

* * *

They went to the Paper Lantern after Homecoming.

It was the way Layla had dreamed it would be, the first time that wasn’t: Will found something he actually liked on the menu and broke half a dozen chopsticks, to Yun Tan’s mounting confusion. Layla fed him one of his spring rolls deftly, while he fed her one of the veggie wontons with clumsy enthusiasm. Their fortune cookies both carried messages about joy in love. When Layla looked up from the little slip of paper, she caught Yun Tan staring at her from her perch behind the counter. She pointed to herself and winked.

 _She picked them! They must have jars with themes or something out back._ Layla smiled brightly in response.

Warren appeared near the end of the night, as she and Will ambled towards the door, laughing every step of the way. He was cleaning up a particularly shadowy booth near the door, his back to them, but Layla knew him. She hung back as Will crossed the threshold and ambled over to say hello.

“Hey Warren! I missed you tonight!”

He didn’t turn around for a moment. Layla had begun to feel uncomfortably like she was being ignored when he did turn, face oddly blank. “Hey.” He didn’t call her ‘hippie’, which left Layla feeling somewhat disappointed. She frowned, but her eagerness to share the good news prevailed. "Guess I was right. The first time I came, I mean."

Warren raised an eyebrow at her in confusion.

"About him being the love of my life." She gestured at the open door. Will was outside, studying a paper lantern that hung just beyond the door with interest. He was standing awkwardly, a young man still not fully at ease in his skin, and they’d probably raised a few eyebrows that night, him in jeans and a shirt while she was in her new emerald dress. A mismatched pair. _But I know that’s not what’s important_. To Layla, the gentle kindness in Will’s eyes made him twice as handsome as any old tux, rented or bespoke, could have.

Without warning, the lantern Will was staring at sprouted a long, translucent tongue of flame at one corner. Then another. Will shouted. Layla started forward, but the lantern’s string must have given from the heat because it dropped to the floor in a mess of fire and burning paper not a second later, where Will quickly stomped it out. Layla breathed in relief.

Warren gave her a thin, grim smile. "Yeah. Sure. Glad you’re happy, hippie.”

Layla was taken aback by the sarcasm in his tone. “My name’s Layla, you know.”

“I know.” He half turned, picked up his tray and began to carry it to the kitchen. “Have a good night, hippie.” Two steps away, he stopped. “You look pretty.” 

“Th-thank you.” The compliment caught her off guard. Almost as much as the near-visible cloud of frustration that hung about Warren as he vanished past the counter. It pained Layla that her friend (not that Warren would deign to call her a friend, but dang it, he was her friend!) couldn’t share in her joy.

Safe inside her armor of happiness, Layla managed to stay lively despite the weirdness of the encounter. But later, flying home in Will’s arms, Layla wondered what she’d missed, over and over again.


	2. Fireworks

It was a month after Homecoming, after Royal Pain, and right smack during the (slow but sure) desegregation reforms at Sky High that Will and Layla found themselves at the Paper Lantern again.

They were eating in silence. It was their regular old silence, the one that often happened between two people who'd known each other for the better part of their lives. It was so easy, Layla sometimes forgot Will was there. And so did he. Every so often they’d look up, remark on the food or on a funny thing Zach had said, and then they’d go back to their silent meal in equal good spirit. Perfectly natural.

Being with Will was easy as breathing, mindless as her morning routine, so much so that Layla sometimes forgot that she could reach over and touch him, kiss him whenever she wanted. She didn’t want to at the moment, but she could...if she wanted to. Later, maybe.

Layla sighed. Later was right. She’d actually brought Will here for a reason, but she was having such a good time that she really didn’t want to ruin it with the conversation she’d been wanting to have with her boyfriend for the last couple of weeks.

She’d gone over it obsessively. It would make things better - or rather, stop things from going down a very bad road. It was for the best. Their friendship was enough to endure it.

It was no understatement to say that Layla was scared shitless at the idea. But she had to do it.

"So."

"So." Will looked up from his ramen with a kind smile.

A _whack whack_ of fabric filled the background. Warren was around this once. He’d been missing so much whenever Layla brought Will that she’d half wondered if he’d quit. But there he was today, whipping his towel at a dried soy sauce puddle with unusual aggression _. Wow. Soy sauce must be really hard to remove._

It gave her a bit of courage to think he couldn’t hear them. Layla bit her lip and took a deep breath. "So... you remember when we got on the bus the first day of High School? And I said you were like my brother?"

Will frowned, evidently confused by the direction of her thoughts. “Uh…sure."

“Do you remember what you felt then?”

“Not really, to be honest,” he answered with a sheepish grin. “All I could think about was how I was about to head off to my first day in superhero school while having zero powers.”

Layla had to concede that it was a pretty good reason to be forgetful about the incident. “OK…so, that didn’t go how I expected.” She laughed nervously and rubbed her forehead. She thought. And thought. And thought again. There really was no way but the direct way – luckily for all of them, Layla didn’t lack courage. She took a deep breath.

"Well...Will, I love you. I really, really do..." And she meant it. Layla's affection for Will transcended butterflies and giggling in corners with her friends. It was so big, she hardly had the words to encompass it. But there was something missing in that overwhelming affection, something that had started to feel itchy in her heart when they played at boyfriend and girlfriend. It didn’t sit well with Layla’s famous inability to be dishonest. "But I'm beginning to think all the, the kissing is maybe..."

Will’s face suddenly went tense with alarm. “What, is it not good?”

“No! No, absolutely not Will. You’re perfect.” The form and the execution were, as far as Layla’s limited experience could inform her, perfectly alright. The problem was the lack of...spark. _Yes! That’s it!_ The problem wasn’t that she didn’t like, or love Will. The problem was that there was something missing. It was like looking at a perfectly well-made bouquet and realizing it was exactly one bloom away from being just right. Layla didn’t have the right words to express that _. And thanks to that, I’m making a mess of things! Why, why didn’t I think to write it all down beforehand?_

“OK, so…” Will dragged a hand over his face roughly. " Let me see. You’re OK with us, but this, the kissing and hand-holding is...not what we're about?"

"Yes?" It was more or less what she had wanted to say, but it felt wrong to jump up and exclaim ‘Yeah, bullseye!” when your boyfriend had managed to piece it together that you were trying to break up with him. 

A few tense seconds passed. More patrons came in through the door, Yun Tan ran around with orders or trays. And then relief flooded Layla: a sheepish smile bloomed on Will’s face. Heartfelt pacifism meant that she would have balked to hurt anyone, but Will was so important to her that even giving him tough love made her entrails hurt.

“So.”

“So.”

Will moved his head from side to side, a quirk of his that he claimed organized his ideas. “Are…are we breaking up?”

It was the hardest part of it all, Layla realized. Hurting Will. “I-I think so. I mean, I don’t want to hurt your feelings -!”

“Layla - “

“I just really don’t want us to hurt each other when we do find our soulmates, because you’re my platonic, brotherly soulmate and I’d hack off my own arm before losing you - “

“Layla!”

“What!”

“I love you too! Yes, let’s be just friends! I’m not going anywhere!” And Will reached out to grab her hand. “Breathe. I’m OK. We’re on the same page here.”

Layla processed it slowly: it was OK? No storming out of the restaurant? No anger? No promises to never acknowledge her again? No... that was it. She’d done it, and that was definitely Will’s hand in hers. The candle on their table sputtered merrily, like a stick of fireworks, but Layla paid it no mind.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’ve been feeling it for a few weeks. But you know me, I’m about as good at feelings as I am with chopsticks.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous. You’ve been getting a lot better! I think you haven’t snapped eight pairs since sushi night last month.”

“Yeah, sure, which is why I got ramen in my eye earlier.”

“Will, the noodles whip out if you pull. We’ve been over this. It happens to the best of us.”

“Thanks.”

“Woah, wait. Did I say you were the best of us?”

Will shoved her playfully, measuring his super strength. Layla cautiously made the flower in the vase flick water in his direction. With a shared smile, they tucked back into their meal, comfortable silence fully restored. 

After a moment, Layla realized it was quieter in there than it had been. She looked around for the missing thing and noticed Warren had stopped his violent lashing for a moment. When it resumed, it was much fainter. Gentler.

"Hey. Layla?” 

“Yeah?”

“You’re awesome. I mean it.” Will looked up from his ramen again, but his eyes were serious. “Any guy would chop off one arm to date you.”

“Does it still count if it’s Pete with the six arms?”

Will dissolved into laughter. “Alright, so he’d chop off all his spares to date you. Better?”

Layla chuckled, relieved, and the candle sparked again, finally commanding her attention. _Funny_. _I didn’t realize it’d been lit when we came in. Must be one of those sparkling birthday candles._

* * *

Layla was prepared for a lot of things on the week after their breakup. Gossip and rumor were so old, the Greeks waxed poetic about them, and if there ever was a sacred temple of gossip, high school was it. Will was a celebrity (the savior of Sky High, Defeater of Royal Pain/Pacifier/Sue Tenny/Gwen Grayson, son of the Commander and Jet Stream, defender of underdogs), and so was she. Kinda. 

She wasn’t surprised when news of their breakup assailed Sky High. She wasn’t surprised when people came up to her to ask if it really had happened, or when people murmured about it behind her back. When Larry came up to her in full golem form and asked her for a date (which she declined), she sensed the logic of his actions through her shock.

But two things really threw her for a loop: the way she suddenly stopped finding Will around the school, and the way everyone but her seemed to think that was normal.

They arrived together on Monday, conversation as easy as it ever had been. They didn’t have any classes together in the morning, but Will wasn’t anywhere to be seen at lunch. He wasn’t on the bus at the end of the day, either.

She approached a guy in a green cap who usually sat behind them as the new driver began announcing takeoff. “Hi. Have you seen Will Stronghold around here?”

The guy looked at her suspiciously. “Isn’t he your ex now?” When Layla nodded, he shrugged, like that explained everything, and turned towards the window again without another word.

Layla was concerned, but decided not to smother Will with calls after school. He’d be in school soon, anyway.

Will missed the bus on Tuesday. He burst into Leveling for Mad Science (a special class to prepare former Hero Support students for the curriculum unification of the following semester) an hour late, got paired with Ethan and, by the time Layla made it to lunch from another harrowing Curriculum Unification committee meeting, he’d taken off. Literally.

“What?”

“Yeah. He said he needed to go, now, so he dropped off a slip of paper with the lunch monitor over there and jumped out a window.” Zach pointed to the lunch monitor - a student volunteer to keep the peace during lunch, not Layla’s idea, but it seemed to be working - and then to a closed window helpfully. She walked briskly to said window and peered out: only clouds and blue, blue skies met her eyes. She turned to the table lined up closest to the next window over – it had a handful of girls, some of them wearing the Sky High cheer squad uniform.

“Hey there. Do any of you girls know where Will Stronghold flew off to?”

A few at them looked at Layla blankly. A lovely curly-haired one with a nose ring cleared her throat. “Relax girl. He’s your ex now, right?” A few of the girls nodded sagely and went back to their lunch. Layla stood there until she became uncomfortable and marched back to the safety of her own table.

Layla tried his phone that night, but it had no reception. The Stronghold landline rang and rang without answer.

They had no classes together on Wednesday. To top it off, Will missed the bus and took off for lunch early too. He finally came around to answering one of her numerous text messages that night, but _“been busy, will explain later”_ was in no way a sufficient answer. On Thursday, Layla lamented her plight to her friends over lunch. Ethan was sympathetic, Magenta deigned to squeeze Layla’s arm in solidarity, and Zach wondered aloud if maybe a mind-controlling parasite had infected Will, stopping him from giving Layla a proper answer.

“Why’d you want to see him? I mean, he’s your ex,” chimed in a voice at their backs. 

Across from Layla, Magenta rolled her eyes and mouthed _Penny_. “What?” Layla whipped around. Sure enough, there was Penny Lent the multiplying cheerleader, sitting alone at a table behind them. She wasn’t wearing her cheerleader uniform, but there was a book bag on the table beside her. And she definitely wasn’t wearing an orange jumpsuit.

“Hey. All the other tables are shunning me, so I thought I’d take the spot beside the rejects. Well, former rejects. You’re kinda unclassifiable right now, but since you saved our lives and all, you’re about on par with the popular crowd in your own right.”

Layla smiled and nodded as if anything, from Penny’s explanation to the fact that she was _there_ and not in jail, made sense. She heard a whispered “what is she doing here?” from Zach and an irritated “parole, power suppression anklet and schooling” from Magenta behind her.

“OK,” said Layla slowly. “Hello Penny.”

“Hi. Sorry nobody will tell you what’s up with your ex. But you know how it is with The Rules.”

Layla knew her eyes must look very wide and that her eyebrows must have gone very high, but Penny was still looking at her calmly. "The rules?" Layla tried to make it sound as polite as she could while also conveying that no, she had no idea how “it” was.

"Well you know, it's The Rules. Once you break up with someone, you have to hate their guts!" She was smiling at Layla with such a blazing air of helpfulness that all Layla could do was smile back and nod, even while the upper half of her face was frozen in horrified shock.

“Huh?”

“Sure, everybody knows that. If you’re friends after breakup, it means your relationship wasn’t very important to you, or that it was your fault you broke up, or that you’re just one of those couples who break up and get back together all the time. Rage at your ex is the ultimate scapegoat. Plus, it means you can claim anything bad he says about you is because he was a dick.”

Layla wondered if she’d ever heard a more preposterous pile of bull crap. But Penny was still there, proud of herself for enlightening Layla. "Why thank you, Penny. I'd...I never would have figured it out on my own!"

* * *

_So that’s why nobody will tell me where he is? I have to just turn around and hate Will?_

He'd been her best friend since they were in elementary. Even when things went crazy in the wake of Gwen...or Sue...or Royal Pain...she had missed him like an ache in her side. She might not miss their kisses as much as she thought she would, but she’d thought all was well between then, and she missed _him_. Collected, kindly, occasionally witty Will. He was a part of her routine, her friend, her brother.

Once, in the second grade, she and Will stopped talking for a week. It had had something to do with a misunderstanding about meeting at or in the jungle gym: Layla had gone on up, Will had waited down on the asphalt, and all would have been mostly well if Julie Spier hadn't fallen off and crashed on Will. Layla had been too far up to notice until the commotion was too big, and her best friend was being carted off alongside a mildly concussed Julie (who made a full recovery and was currently attending ordinary high school to great academic success).

Will had broken his arm. And he'd been convinced that Layla had forgotten about him back at the jungle gym, which meant he hadn't wanted to speak to Layla on the phone or have her over once he was finally home from the hospital. He'd had his parents tell Layla he was sleeping, or hurting too much, but Mrs. Stronghold had sensed the unease and gently suggested that Layla wait until Will was more settled to talk to him. “He’ll come around, sweetie. He just had a big scare and isn’t thinking straight just yet.”

It had been nice to know Mrs. Stronghold didn’t hate her, but other than that, it had been _awful_. Layla only knew she and Will had been apart for eight days because her mother remembered. To nine-year-old Layla, it might have been fifty forevers.

In the end, she hadn't been able to take it anymore and, like a supervillain planning to kidnap the mayor, had planned how she’d march up to Will at recess over the weekend - and so had he, hilariously enough. She'd marched up to the little nook where the class books were kept, but Will wasn't there, as he'd gone all the way to the gardening area (a little stretch of wall where potted plants were kept) to look for her in turn. He'd craned his neck, Layla peeked around the bookshelf, and they'd both burst out laughing at the sight of the other.

They’d weathered that, the nefarious plot of a villain to separate them and even a relationship. There was no way in hell Layla would cut Will out of her life voluntarily. What's more, even if _he_ thought he should, she just plain wouldn't let him. Hanging out with her ex (and how lame was that, that these few months would slap them both over the head with such an ugly label) wouldn’t get her any closer to the popular table but fortunately for her, all her closest friends were misfits.

Layla marched herself over to Will’s house on Thursday after school. She didn’t even bother with the door, growing a lemon tree (with actual lemons!) to hoist her up to her best friend’s window instead. She stepped through the open window, nimbly avoiding the bucket of Legos that Will had left at the foot of that window for at least five years and startling Will himself, who was at his desk when she burst in.

“Layla!”

“Hello Will, we need to talk.” Will’s face scrunched up in confusion, but Layla seized the chance to speak. “Listen, I don’t care about the rules.”

“What rules?”

“I don’t know, Penny told me I’m supposed to hate your guts, and everyone is all surprised by how I keep asking for you like I’m supposed to just start hating you - oh never mind. I just wanted to say I love you, and I don’t care if you’re avoiding me. So we're staying friends, OK? OK."

“OK,” said Will gently, “We’re staying friends”. It reminded Layla of the tone he used when his little cousins handed out roles, like ‘now you’re the pink dragon’, during their games of make believe. “I kind of wasn’t aware we weren’t on the same page about being friends.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, I... don’t know where you got the idea that we weren’t friends, because we are. Best friends, even.”

Relief washed over Layla like a friendly ocean wave. “I just...with how you’ve kept vanishing this week...I thought you were avoiding me. I thought I reeked of ex-girlfriend and you didn’t want me around anymore.”

“That’s really silly of you Layla.” Will replied fondly. He stared at her fondly too, silence stretching on between them until Layla got confused.

“What? Is there something on my face?”

“Oh, no. Nothing’s wrong,” soothed Will. “It’s just…it feels good that you worry so much about our friendship, is all. But I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve just been very busy. Remember how my parents and I are the Stronghold Three now?”

“Yeah…?”

“Well, The Stronghold Three just landed their first case.” Will reached for a folder on the neat stack that he had on his desk and handed it to her. It was full of newspaper clippings: “FIRE ON FLOOR 25” and “FIERY RAGE” headed the pile. But the content wasn’t about The Commander and Jetstream, plus Will, saving anyone - it was all household fire cases, all well handled by the fire department.

“I didn’t know heroes could investigate full civilian cases.”

“Oh, we can’t. But the cops think an arsonist metahuman is behind this. The fires start too fast to be some guy pouring paths of gasoline, and they move oddly, sometimes spreading against the wind. Someone is controlling them, for sure.”

Not all people with powers were heroes. By law, the term associated to a person with abilities beyond those of a normal human was ‘metahuman’, since ‘superhuman’ had been deemed too positively biased by the Founding Fathers and ‘mutant’ excluded superpowered people with ordinary human DNA, like magic users (and Ron Wilson, the amazing 15 foot bus driver - who could shrink back down to 5'7 when needed).

"That’s actually pretty interesting. What do your parents say about all of this?”

"Well...Dad is mostly keen on swooping in and immobilizing him with a cryogenic bomb. But I decided we shouldn't just assume he’s the bad guy. See, he hasn’t caused a single casualty...so I wondered if we were all missing something.” 

“That’s very self-aware of you, Will.”

“I actually learned that from you.”

Layla smiled. “I’m glad to see the whole ‘look beyond the labels’ thing finally stuck.”

“After Gwen? Believe me, it did.” Will shifted a little in his seat from discomfort. “Anyway. That’s what I’ve been doing this week: I’ve been trying to parse out his fires from other cases. I got copies of all the news articles about him, I spoke to witnesses. Looks like he has pyrokinesis, and there’s something like a method to his madness.”

"Or her madness."

"Ha! I've got you there. Suspect's a 'he'. They got some blurry footage of him.”

“...oh alright, you win.” Layla exclaimed, feigning disappointment at the loss.

Will responded with a mischievous smile. “Thanks. Anyway: we got footage of him. The incidents looked random at first. I’m not sure if it was always that way, but now he’s been very deliberately causing them to attract attention. He's also unregistered - not government funded, not a freelancer, nothing anywhere. I checked the records, and he might be the only pyrokineticist in the entire state."

Superhero registration was a fairly straightforward issue. Being a metahuman didn’t mean one had to be a hero, but anyone with hero aspirations _had_ to register as one. Data about superheroes went to a restricted-access government database, fully visible to law enforcement, partly visible to civilians. The database made contacting a hero for aid a little simpler, while also making it possible for heroes to have some form of accountability. A hero could become a government contractor or join law enforcement as part of the Metahuman Military Squad; they could even freelance, but they still had to register for purposes of control - a name, attributed powers, a contact number (which the hero had to be able to answer _at all times_ ), PO Box or mailing address optional. Freelancing allowed for secret identities and at least half of a stress-free life, which was the reason Will’s parents had chosen it.

Anyone who didn’t register as a hero could go about their lives employing their powers as they wished. Provided they didn’t break any laws with them, of course. 

(Despite pressure from a few conservative hero factions, 'villain' and 'supervillain' were not considered labels - metahumans who performed crime with their powers were simply criminals. Which, of course, didn’t stop them from using it.)

Will cleared his throat nervously. “I... kinda think he’s a vigilante. Dad thinks I’m creating illusory correlations because I’m trying so hard to see the good in him, blah blah blah...but I think - no, never mind. Look at the clippings under the green divider. I feel like they speak for themselves.” And he passed her the folder a little shyly. 

Metahumans who performed heroic feats but refused registration were ‘vigilantes'. Vigilantism was a contentious issue: was a metahuman who placed themselves above the law to do good a philanthropist or a potential criminal? As far as Layla knew, their criminal justice system was about as confused about it as people on the street were. Metahumans who’d used their powers in split-second decisions (saving a plane about to crash, catching a person who’d fallen from a bridge or a building) had been slapped over the head with that particular label and prosecuted, just the same as metahumans who made a career of using their powers and dodging authorities. Some were pursued doggedly, while others had the government’s all-seeing eye turned pointedly away from them. It was more than a little messy, and even though vigilantism was illegal, action seemed to rely more on how local government felt about the vigilante than on the word of Law.

Layla had never read the entire Metahumans Act herself, but she felt the matter was more complicated...and that vigilantes who did good things should really get a break. She flipped the folder open. “You’re oddly tidy about this.” The Will Stronghold she knew had always been a bit absent-minded, prone to misplacing homework assignments and books, but the folder in her hands had been scrupulously organized. _Will really likes this superhero business,_ thought Layla as she flipped to the appropriate page. _Maybe not the flashy part, but he really likes research. And boy does he take it seriously._

The newspaper clippings in that section weren’t the full-page horror shows at the front. What’s more, a lot of them didn’t say a word about pyromania: “POLICE CAPTURES BANKER INVOLVED IN FOOD STAMP FRAUD”, “RARE ANIMAL TRAFFICKING RING THOROUGHLY DISMANTLED” and “KIDNAPPING VICTIM FOUND ALIVE”. 

Layla skimmed through the one about the banker. “The condo he was hiding in caught fire?”

“Yep. Faulty wiring, they say. The banker was recognized by one of the firemen.”

Layla sat down to read the file more attentively, intrigued. The trafficking ring was a little subtler: a police sting had been in progress and the heads had tried to escape the thousand dollar townhouse where they’d been auctioning their “wares” at, only to discover firemen and first responders blocking the road up ahead - their only escape from the city-limits house with only one paved road. The fire itself had happened at an empty hangar and had died down with minimal effort. While the fire department had been miffed at the waste of time, pursuing police had been very grateful for the roadblock.

The kidnapping victim was found after firemen and first responders, again, were summoned to a small household fire - in the apartment next door to where she was being held. The fire was minor and, according to the victim herself, magically timed for the one time of day when she had been left unattended. It also didn’t hurt that the police department had dispatched a few units, hoping to catch the arsonist. They might have missed catching their man, but the kidnapper was deemed an appropriate consolation gift.

“He’s setting these fires to get the actual authorities to help.”

“Yep. And he hasn’t even singed the bad guy so far. Well, mostly. I think the banker got a good lungful of smoke before they found him.”

“Well, this arsonist guy sounds...reckless, sure, but awesome.” And then, Layla frowned. “You’re not going to let your Dad freeze him, are you?”

“Hell no. I’m hoping we can identify him and contact him privately. Maybe he’ll agree to registration if we can get the State to drop charges.” 

“What if he doesn’t want to register?” 

“Then we’ll have to think of something else. Either way, we have got to find this guy before he pisses anyone off too badly. He’s been subtle, but Mom says it's only a matter of time before someone gets it into their heads that he’s a dangerous unregistered meta that needs muzzling for civilians’ safety.”

“That would be awful.”

“I know. But I’m working on it. I promise Layla, I won’t let anyone lock up a guy who clearly wants to help.”

* * *

Layla went to the Paper Lantern that night. 

Will hadn’t officially asked for her help, but only because he couldn’t. What he had said though, was that he’d be “glad for her creativity”, and that was as open an invitation as she could get without breaking any laws. Layla was an unofficial collaborator of the Stronghold Three, with a delicate mission in her hands. Superhero work required a proper superhero environment, something more exciting than her bedroom or the school library.

So, the Paper Lantern it was. Her own personal headquarters, her Sanctum, small and home-like, with either no patrons or too many, all making noise and oblivious to the going-on around them. Particularly the goings-on of a teenage girl who probably looked like she was doodling her crush’s name on a pad of paper. It was perfect and way, way more exciting than the library.

She found her table (the one that had been sprinkled with her tears during the Gwen season) and sat daintily, just for her own amusement, then pulled out a blank pad of paper and a pencil. She hadn’t even settled on how she’d make sure only she understood the scratchings when a be-aproned figure popped up to the side of her table.

“Hippie. You’re back.”

Layla looked up into Warren’s bewildered face and smiled. “Hey Warren.”

“It’s been a while.” 

“Oh come on, it’s only been a couple weeks. Miss me already?” He’d been around the day she and Will broke up, but he’d seemed really distant that day. Besides, Warren seemed decidedly untalkative whenever Will came around with her, so they hadn’t talked for at least two weeks.

Warren shrugged, scooping up his tray as he passed. Layla smiled to herself as she put pencil to paper. _He totally missed me_.

Feeling daring, she turned to look over her shoulder at the Warren-shaped lump retreating. “I’ll be coming in a little more now. I’ve got work to do, and this place inspires me.”

Warren grunted, and Layla smiled to herself.

* * *

She spent a good hour or so at the restaurant, brainstorming and scratching away on her little pad. There wasn’t a whole lot she could do without the information Will had gathered, but she definitely couldn’t take the folder from him (she’d asked), to say nothing of the evidence he’d stored in the Sanctum (they’d all learned that lesson after Royal Pain). Still, she had a lot of bullet points by the end of her self-imposed hour of research, and thought she’d figured out clever codes and codenames for everything in case she ever lost it.

Warren walked by a few times and even deigned to...well, to not frown when Layla smiled at him during one of his circuits past her table. It wasn’t much, but it being Warren and all, it was something.

“Don’t you love it when you’re busy at work, doing something important for a change?”

Layla thought Warren would say something sarcastic (or maybe just ignore her), but he actually paused for once. “Wouldn’t know. Never done it.”

 _Wow: an answer. He really must have missed me._ “What do you mean? Thanks to you, I always have a nice clean table to look forward to when I come in. You’re really efficient.”

Warren threw her a look of disgust. “If it were anyone else, I’d think you’re making fun of me.” He shook his head slowly. “But it’s you, so of course you’re serious.”

“Hey, I mean it! Revolutions always start small.”

“So I’m changing the world by picking up dirty dishes.” He flicked at an empty teacup in his tray, his tone oozing incredulity.

Layla smiled sweetly at him. She knew the answer to that. “Nope. It’s even smaller. You’re changing the world by taking even this tiny job that nobody thinks much of and doing your best at it. Or maybe you’re changing the world by making this tiny restaurant someone else’s happy place. Maybe you already changed the world. Maybe you changed someone’s entire world. Maybe someone tired, or hungry, or just a sad little brunette who thought she’d been dumped.”

Warren gaped at her. Layla knew she’d gotten him by the way his mouth relaxed: he only ever did that when the Cook said something outrageous, or that one time he watched in horror as a drunken frat guy, who’d come to pick up a box of something for his pledge brothers, picked up a jade dragon from its little nook and pretended to throw it - only to have it slip through his fingers for real. He wasn’t looking at her in horror, though. If Layla had been pressed to put a word to it, she would have called it wonder - and then felt a little egocentric about it.

Warren recovered quickly, though. “You,” he declared, “are really-”

“- weird, hippie. Yeah, I know.” 

Then, a miracle: Warren’s lips twitched into a tiny, miniscule, itty bitty smile. “Don’t stay out too late.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I won’t keep you up past your bedtime.”

He sighed, turning away with his tray. “That’s not it.” He took two steps forward. “I... well, the world needs its optimists. Stay safe, hippie.”

Layla felt her cheeks hurt from the size of her smile. She knew she liked Warren. She knew she was fond of him; knew he was her friend (even if he disagreed). But she was beginning to think _she_ had grown on _him_ too. _It’s nice to have another friend._

* * *

Layla started her own collection of newspaper clippings the following day. It was only fair if she was going to help.

She soon discovered that their city had a well-reputed fire department (with awards to their name) and that the city controlled them well enough to have real arson make the news. There had been a terrible rash of fires over a decade back, but they’d stopped immediately once The Commander finally put Pyromaniac (whose civilian name had been Barron Battle) behind bars. There had been a fire at a housing project ten years ago, then a ten-year gap: the fire related incidents that likely involved their arsonist had started a year ago (Layla wondered if all the tens had some symbolism behind them). Other than two rather vicious fires (one at a school Layla didn’t know, with damage centering on the empty gymnasium, and one at a fancy apartment building) right at the start, fires in and of themselves rarely made the news.

What she did find, with much digging, were stories about smoke, heat or even fire alarms leading mysteriously going off, which led to the bad guy being caught at the end. Even the emotionless, factual reporting of the snippets failed to drown out the thrill of each capture. It was fascinating: the bad guy was always really a bad guy. The arsonist never seemed to target petty thieves or people with overdue parking tickets, but seemed to revel in catching big white-collar types, thugs and, with particular gusto, people with a history of abuse. Anyone who had laid a hand on a child or an animal seemed high on his list of priorities.

Layla admitted to herself, as she dutifully cut out a story of a thoroughly disassembled puppy mill, that it’d be easy to swoon over this guy, even if she’d never seen his face. It was lucky nobody in a larger news station had gotten wind of this – it’d probably turn into a craze. She imagined street vendors hawking ‘anonymous arsonist’ fan products, action figures and maybe a summer blockbuster. She shuddered. _It’s a shame that no one really appreciates these things, but it’s probably for the best._

* * *

About two weeks after she started, there was another sighting of the arsonist. A very, very visible one. Layla quietly wondered if she’d jinxed things.

This time, somewhat-less-blurry footage of a young man in a black balaclava hat with a stitched-on white smile earned him the nickname “The Jack-o-Lantern”. His feat ( _stopping_ a fire this time, which came from a faulty heating device attached to a battered women’s shelter, of all things) outed him as a pyrokineticist. And that, along with his muscles, evident despite the simple sweatshirt and pants combo he wore, earned him a slew of fans.

But the excitement, of course, didn’t spread to the mayor, to the police, and particularly not to the Stronghold Three (plus Layla). “Mom says we shouldn’t be surprised. He’s like Spider-Man or The Scarlet Pimpernel. The news will love him.” Will slumped dejectedly over his papers at that.

They were at the Sanctum this time, conferring over the latest developments. As amazing as this piece of evidence was (they had his eyes on record!) Layla shared Will’s despair: for a vigilante, notoriety was _bad_.

“What are the odds of him getting a pass?” 

Will snorted into his papers before picking up his head. “They were slim before this. Now?” He shuddered. “Marguerite meets Citizen Chauvelin bad.”

Layla grimaced. She and Will had loved _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ as children: Marguerite meeting with the bad guy = their guy was under the searchlight and might be outed at any moment.  
  
“Well, I guess it could be worse.”

“How?”

“It could be Robin Hood bad. If they knew his face and his name and where to find him. And how to lure him out. We’d be in hot water.”

“Yeah, well, let’s hope it only gets animated Disney Robin Hood bad.”

“It’s not so bad then. The Scarlet Pimpernel was an escape artist, after all.”

That got a chuckle out of Will, even if it was a small one. “Either way, we better step up our game. Mom said the trouble with being on everyone’s radar is that the press can turn on you in a second - and she’s right. That, and I don’t know how long we’ll be able to hold Dad down. The mayor hit the roof with today’s videos. He really, really didn’t like the idea of the vigilante being a fire manipulator.”

Layla scrunched up her nose, even though she knew it made sense. She of all people understood the destructive force of fire - it was the opposite of her own power, in a way. It was the mindless terror she disagreed with, and the outright paranoia too.

“We’ll find him. I know we will.” Rather, they had no choice _but_ to find him first – but Layla was a consecrated optimist, and failure was not in her vocab.

* * *

Will’s words (or rather his mom’s) turned out to be prophetic, because the next piece of news really was worse: their arsonist made a faux pas. A bad one. After two weeks of a genuine frenzy, which thankfully didn’t include action figures (but did include a few fanfictions turning up on The Commander’s research, to Will and Layla’s amusement), Layla’s cellphone received an urgent message, which warned her of an incoming urgent call during Study Hall. 

“Listen, I need you down here,” came Will’s voice as soon as Layla put the phone to her ear. “And right now. We’ll get you a hall pass and an excuse for Principal Powers. Ron Wilson should be there for you in ten minutes. You’ll be here in fifteen.”

Layla ducked behind a wall of lockers and pressed the phone tighter to her ear, heart beating. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t say more over the phone,” he answered, tone low with urgency, “but there’ll be a suitcase in the backseat with you. Pick a mask, pick an alias while you’re at it. We need you.”

“What?” Layla understood the words, but like a rock jamming a set of cogs, their real significance short-circuited her brain.

“I know. I’m sorry,” said Will, his tone almost pleading. “But this was all I could do. The story is you’re a strictly on-call ally from out-of-state. We’ll work on a paper trail. You don’t have to commit to be this person, or to be a superhero, if you aren’t ready. But if this is going to work, you need to be some kind of superhero right now.

* * *

A hurried flying limo ride later, Layla had managed a full costume change. _Thank GOD for Mr. Boy’s quick-change classes!_ The outfit she settled on was a knee length dress with a cute shawl, embroidered in vines. Her chosen mask, a full-face thing with a green hood out of a Carnival of Venice movie, made speaking very difficult, but it ensured that nobody would be able to even guess at her identity. _If it weren’t for the dress, I’d bet nobody would even know I’m a girl_.

But the excitement lasted little. Down in the City Botanic Gardens, the Stronghold Three waited for her in antsy. They were surrounded by a small detachment of cops, the mayor and a few men in military uniform and copious badges. Nobody spoke, not even when Ron handed Layla over to a welcoming committee of riot police, or when Layla and her escort joined them. Jetstream and Will (the only other person in a mask) went to her side while The Commander gave her a curt nod. That was it: a few ‘hellos’ later, the group started moving. One bend in the path, she saw it: there was a charred expanse, perfectly circular, right smack in the middle of the green. The grass was dead, grey and black, and the charcoal-black trunks still smoked. The carcass of something like a tent also adorned the cite of the incident. Pain bloomed in Layla’s heart at the sight. Eyes still glued to the patches of ashes beginning to stir in the wind, she reached out for Will’s arm and squeezed.

He pressed back. “I think there was a fight, this time. I don’t think he meant to go for direct confrontation, but it happened...and that happened. No victims...except a few costly trees and a very, very rare flower bush. A gift from the ambassador of something or other. It’s irreplaceable. And…it was part of an ongoing investigation. Medical. The cure for something was underway here.”

Layla hissed in commiseration.

“I know.” Will squeezed the hand that was pressed to his bicep again. “And tongues are wagging. Someone was saying that he’s a spy for the pharmaceutical industry, or even a Russian spy. We can’t fix that now. But Mom, Dad and I promised there was one thing we could do. So…?” He pointed towards the plant carnage with his head.

Layla nodded: she knew what she had to do here. 

With careful, measured steps she walked into the expanse of dead grass, feeling the ache of the earth beneath her feet and the way the fire had burned through healthful green and gentle purple. She felt tears flow down from her eyes, pooling at the chin of her mask as the pain of the dead plants lingered like a scream in the air. It wasn’t quite like animal suffering – Layla and her mother had had long conversations about it – but it _was_ suffering. It was lives truncated needlessly. It was the cycle of life disturbed.

But there was something amidst the dead grey, hiding timidly. Some of the roots had escaped the inferno. Layla dug her toes discretely, trying to get a feel for the earth. Beneath the surface, not very deep down, the soil was alright. _Perfect. That’s all I need._

Layla took a deep breath, thankful that her nose at least was unobstructed. She raised her arms, feeling the life that hid beneath the scorched soil perk up, responding to her wordless call. _The danger is over. Grow. Come on...grow._

Gasping and shouting started behind her, but all Layla cared about was the blooming around her. Fresh shoots rose up amongst the deadened brown blades of grass, tiny green stems grew larger, grew bark and stretched skyward. At the center, like a proper Ikebana arrangement, a tiny plant peeped out and unfurled into a bush with small, bell-like red flowers. _Campion! Why, I thought it was nearly extinct!_ The bell-like flowers grew colorful spots as she watched, as if communicating that it was no ordinary campion bush. Layla offered the bush a grateful smile, communicating her gratitude at its beauty.

A few seconds later, the patch was fully healed. Layla took another deep, cleansing breath and retracted her own awareness from that of the plants.

There was a hand at her shoulder “That was awesome L... I mean, Acacia Thorn.”

Unseen behind her mask, Layla raised an eyebrow. _Acacia Thorn?_ Well, at least she was well enough disguised that she wouldn’t have to stay Acacia Thorn. Plant manipulators weren’t exactly a dime a dozen, but surely Will making this Acacia Thorn from another state would help shield her.

One of the many-medaled guys walked hesitantly towards the bush. The healed area was indistinguishable from the rest of the garden otherwise, and Layla beamed with pride. “This is incredible.”

Another one walked towards the spotted campion, stepping on the healed grass like a little boy navigating a newly mopped floor. He bent over to examine the bush; eyes wide as saucers. “Remarkably done, miss Acacia Thorn.”

Layla nodded at him soberly. Will squeezed her shoulder. “I think that’ll appease the mayor for now,” he said in a whisper, “but we’re in trouble, and so is The Jack-O-Lantern. Nobody was burned, but this was no act of benevolent fire. And to top it all off, a few people were hurt during the evacuation.”

Layla turned towards him, trying to ask a question with her eyes alone. _What next?_

Will’s lips twisted upwards in a grim curve. “I think they’ll start a manhunt.”

Layla’s head suddenly weighed a ton. She slumped forward, hitting her forehead against Will’s chest. She could feel his heartbeat through the cold ceramic of her mask, a faint, panicked staccato, but it was hardly a comfort.

* * *

The following days were a real lesson in Public Relations disasters. If The Jack-O-Lantern had ever thought to hire a publicist, the poor guy (or gal) would have probably run screaming and moved to Hawaii over the fall-out.

On one hand, it wasn’t exactly as bad as Will’s worst fears. The public didn’t completely turn on him, for one: some people were calling it a copycat crime, despite convincing footage from the Botanic Garden and eyewitness accounts. Some people barely registered the incident. A few others claimed it was a statement against Big Pharma, successfully rallying a few cabals of tin-foil hat wearers to The Jack-O-Lantern’s defense.

On the other hand, the incident really did mark the end of The Jack-O-Lantern’s stint as the undisputed good guy. Talk of him was now mired in controversy, from the logical to the absurd. Worse still, his attack on a peaceful research cite brought the anti-metahumans out from under their river rocks and flung them right into the title pages of every newspaper around the country. Metahumans everywhere started locking their doors extra tight, and Principal Powers held an emergency assembly about the importance of sticking together and the many pitfalls of hate and intolerance.

Layla went to the Paper Lantern on the night after that assembly, when the house felt smothering and her mother finally fell asleep. Layla wasn’t the kind to escape the house after curfew. This was grounds for…well, a grounding. Ha-ha. But Layla couldn’t stand the sight of her bedroom ceiling for another hour, and somehow, she _knew_ she’d be safe. She always felt safe at the little restaurant.

She didn’t order anything, waving off Yun Tan with a smile instead. There was a late-night interview thing droning on the radio someone (likely the Cook) was blaring, and Layla was shocked to discover they were discussing The Jack-O-Lantern.

_“Really, unregistered metahumans have no place…”_

_“They think they can rule our lives as if by some divine mandate…”_

_“If I were president, you can bet I’d do more than just ask them to register…”_

The station was clearly of an anti-metahuman bend, but even aware of the bias, Layla couldn’t help feeling her blood boil. She looked down at the table hard, trying to tamp down on her disgust and failing. _Every single one of us has the potential for good or for evil. I mean sure, metahumans can do a lot more harm, but it’s not like anyone has ever had to be a metahuman to destroy the world. How can they be so blind! So stupid. If I had two minutes to give them a piece of my mind, I swear -_

“OK, what’s wrong.”

Layla looked up to see Warren in front of her. He looked...concerned, despite his usual blasé expression being mostly in place. Aware of her surroundings again, Layla realized she had projected so much anger that the slightly wilted white rose in her vase had turned blood red and sprouted a few vicious thorns. 

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” She carefully avoided looking at her creation, worried that Warren would notice the change. She stared at Warren instead, willing him to focus on her face – and gasped. Warren looked a little peaky himself: his hair was shiny with sweat, as if he hadn’t washed it a lot recently and his face was ashen. Layla wasn’t sure if it was his pallor and his deep-set eyes making her see things, or if there really were shadows under his eyes.

“Are you OK?”

Warren looked down at the table. “Just tired. Long day.” Then he sneaked a glance back up at her. “Could say the same about you. What’s wrong.” He wasn’t asking.

Layla slumped, resting her spine on the back of her chair in defeat. “I already told you, Warren. Nothing.” _It’s just that the guy I’ve been obsessing over went and put us all in danger, and I’m kind of angry at him but even angrier at the bigots coming out of the woodwork._

He raised an eyebrow at her. “What, no spilling your guts at me? That’s either a good sign or a really bad one. With the look of you, I’m going with number two.”

Layla sighed noisily. “I’m alright. And I have nothing to say.”

“Psh. Try again, hippie. With feeling this time.”

Layla fought with the urge to spill her guts. Really, it galled her that Warren kept reading her this way. _I won’t say a word, I won’t say a word, I won’t say a word…_

“It’s just - don’t you hate how people are so judgmental?”

“Huh?”

 _Oh great. Here I go again...well no, actually not. He asked, so I hope it isn’t closing time yet._ “You saw how they were tearing The Jack-o-Lantern - I mean, the pyrokineticist apart like that. Like it didn’t matter who or what he was - no wait, like the fact that he’s a metahuman is all they need to know to condemn him. Like everything is his fault, I mean, a kid would realize he’s been doing a world of good, but he makes one mistake, I mean, who knows what was going on in the garden? For all we know we were about to be attacked by mutant Venus flytraps and he saved us - “

Layla deflated, her anger drained. She really wasn’t very good at anger or hatred. And the venting did help her feel a tiny bit better, like a little of the tension that threatened to snap her in half had eased, just a bit. _Hold on, something doesn’t feel_ _right_. She stole a glance at her companion.

Warren had gone deathly quiet. It seemed to Layla that he’d gone ever more ashen, and his fingers on the edge of the table seemed to hold on gingerly. His downcast eyes radiated insecurity, one of the last words Layla would have ever thought to use when describing her friend.

“Warren, seriously, what’s wrong?”

Warren let his index finger slip off the edge of the table in response. After a few quiet minutes, he lifted his head back up very slowly. “You really think that?”

“What? That he’s innocent? Yeah, of course! I mean, he didn’t set the entire place on fire, did he? The last time he messed up was years ago, during the fancy building fire. And I’m sure that time he also didn’t mean any harm. It probably started small and got out of hand, plus the fire department said it went out really fast, and the conditions were really difficult, so I’m sure he must have hung back and tried to control the flames. And OK, sure, there wasn’t a bad guy inside, but he’s really young – he must have really been a kid for that one! He must have made a mistake!”

Warren gazed at her in shock. Layla blushed, realizing she’d outed herself “I - well, I’m sort of a fan? I guess? Of his work.” It wasn’t a lie, since she really did admire The Jack-O-Lantern’s work. It wasn’t like Warren would believe the truth anyway. _Yeah, imagine if I told him my best friend is the newest member of the Stronghold Three, and I’m collaborating with him to rescue The Jack-O-Lantern from the authorities._

Warren’s face was a study in micro expressions. When had Layla learned to read him like this? She saw his eyelids open just a fraction (more surprise), then his mouth relaxed (contemplation)...and finally, his entire face shut down. He was disappointed.

“Didn’t take you for a follower, hippie.”

Layla’s mouth dropped open in shock. “What?”

Warren shrugged in feigned nonchalance. “Thought you weren’t the kind to get bedazzled by a... pretty face.” He said the final two words like they tasted bad.

“I beg your pardon?” Layla strived to keep her tone calm, but no less passionate. “I do _not_ think The Jack-O-Lantern is handsome, I think what he’s _doing_ is awesome. A lot of metahumans his age would be out causing pointless arson or showing off for girls or - or something else stupid, and here he is, risking his freedom to actually _do_ something. You’d think a pyrokineticist would go around picking fights, but see how he jumps through hoops to just get the right people onto the scene? It’s incredible. He isn’t even a part of the system, but he’s using it right! I wish every vigilante had that sense of self-restraint. No, scratch that - everyone should have it. Superhuman or not.”

And it was true, Layla realized. Even superheroes sometimes left entire districts in shambles just to get the villain de jour behind bars. And sure, it wasn’t good to have evil mad scientists or death rays or malevolent shapeshifters on the loose, but the chase could become very intense. People got hurt. Buildings got demolished - sometimes with people still inside them. Though it might have been part of his effort to keep a low profile, The Jack-o-Lantern’s use of his powers had been exemplary. Even today. Fire was destructive, and with the Botanic Garden’s fire system apparently being nonexistent, this could have been a tragedy, a flame in a cellar full of dry wood. But it hadn’t been.

Warren gazed at her in confusion. It wasn’t the sharp, vaguely amused “what the Hell is wrong with you” from the first few times she spilled her guts to him - it was gentler. Awed, maybe. “You’re really weird, hippie.” Warren kept her eyes on her for another intense second before turning away. “Don’t ever change.” He went off towards the flip gate without a second look. 

“Warren, wait!” But he didn’t. Layla slumped in her chair, wondering what the heck she’d missed. She glanced at the rose she’d created, as if she’d have the answer.

“I’m gonna have to steal you and take you home.” The rose didn’t answer, but Layla offered her a kindly nod anyway.

* * *

The following day, The Jack-O-Lantern re-emerged. This time, he left three young men firmly tied in front of a tiny flower shop downtown, fit to be found at first light. They were fairly subdued, about 19 years old. Burned into their clothes, without even tickling their skins, was the word 'arsonist', across their backs like a soccer player's jersey. The midday news reported that they were the real culprits behind the Botanic Gardens fire – young aspiring members of a street gang, part of a hazing ritual gone wrong.

A street gang that happened to be the street muscle of a crime family. A crime family that happened to have a bone to pick with the mayor.

That ought to put the matter to rest. It should have put the matter to rest. But, to Layla’s horror, the simple truth didn’t beat the newscasters or the street rumors back into submission.

On the contrary, it seemed to open a whole new can of worms: that he was some sort of agent of chaos, that there were secret metahuman militias on the move to destabilize the government, that he was the head of a team of arsonists, that the kids were innocent scapegoats. There was some justified outcry about the young arsonists being victims of a system, urgent calls to punish their employers and not the boys themselves, but it all cycled back to The Jack-O-Lantern bucking the law once again. And Layla wasn’t even counting the outright conspiracy theories.

Her first impulse was to head to the Paper Lantern, but she knew better. Anti-metahuman feelings were swelling on the streets, and while neither her nor her mother were registered heroes (AKA invisible), Layla conceded that evil was nothing if not paranoid. She went home straight from school for the next three days, all eyes on the news or the newspapers or the internet with a sense of growing uneasy.

On the fourth day, Marlene Rivera (also known as the girl who could transform into a beach ball) was outed as a meta by her neighbors. Her house was egged and toilet-papered, and while nobody was hurt, word reached the Strongholds that she and her family had been temporarily moved to a safer location.

Neither Layla nor her mother found the inspiration to cook that night. Desperately needing a pick-me-up, a distraught Layla ordered takeout from the Paper Lantern. The best of both worlds, really.

In retrospect, she shouldn’t have been so surprised. Layla knew the restaurant was a small operation, she knew most of the employees, and only a bit of thought ought to have revealed to her that odds were whoever biked to her house with the food was a familiar face. But her head was (unsurprisingly) elsewhere, so when she opened the door to Warren, bike helmet in one hand and takeout bag (paper - recyclable) in the other, she gave a little squeak.

“Warren! Hi!”

He nodded, briefly looking past her into the house. “Nice place. The…vine thing right here is nice.” He pointed to the Algerian Ivy growing on the wall beside the door, it’s two-colored leaves glossy and strong.

Layla smiled proudly. “Thank you. I grow most of the plants myself.” _More literally than you know._

He was all business after that, handing her the receipt and counting out the change. But once the transaction was over, he leaned on the doorframe, all fake nonchalance. “Heard your guy scored some points.”

“Huh? Who?”

“The Jack-O-Lantern.” Warren made a face of mild disgust.

Layla was beginning to think he might not like the guy very much, and her stomach flipped. If Warren turned out to be an anti-meta…but she gulped, following the trail of the conversation by sheer effort. “Oh! By handing in the actual arsonists? I hope so. The court of public opinion is being a real pain in the butt.”

Warren shrugged. “Happens to all of us.”

“Not all of us have that much to lose, Warren. He could be locked up.”

Warren shrugged. “Maybe his cause is worth it.”

Layla looked back at him sharply. “I…thought you weren’t a fan.”

“I’m not. But thinking the guy’s an idiot doesn’t mean I think he’s doing it all wrong. Some causes are worth being locked up for.”

The statement hit home, hard. Layla swayed. “I know. But I wish the world weren’t such a... heckhole about it.”

“Heckhole?” Warren chuckled. “You’re all kinds of adorable, hippie.” It sounded half mocking, half endearing.

“Oh ha-ha, Mr. Too Cool for school.”

“Hey. I go to school, and I already told you, my name’s not Cool.”

“Well duh. Warren sounds like an old British uncle’s name. That’s pretty uncool.”

They were both smiling, Layla realized. It was different from being the restaurant, Warren’s full attention on her. No dishes, no tables, no Cook or Yun Tan to run interference. Without the distractors, it seemed so much more natural to lean into Warren, invading his personal bubble of space brazenly. She didn’t even stop to wonder what she was doing.

Warren suddenly turned to the Algerian Ivy again. “So, there’s this...flower show.”

“Well, our ivy’s nice, but I think putting it in a flower show is a real stretch -”

Warren glanced back at her, nose scrunched. “Let me finish, hippie. So…there’s a thing. Down at the City Botanic Gardens. Seems like some superhero chick rehabilitated the bush those three kids torched, so the city’s holding a show, for support, I guess. There’s going to be a fair. Food and things to by. Thought you’d like to come with me.” Warren’s forcibly calm tone made it sound like he was just saying it. Like he didn’t care either way.

But, in a flash, Layla realized he did care. Something in the tenor of his voice and his studiously calm face hollered it at her. “I do love flowers. OK! Let’s go see this rare bush.”

Warren nodded calmly. “OK Hippie. I’ll give you a call about the...time.”

“Sure.” A nervous thrill ran up her spine, like the moment when the rollercoaster pitched down the slope. The moment felt…well, momentous. Haha.

But Warren went on like nothing bothered him, easing off her doorframe and checking his helmet. He pointed down at Layla’s hand. “You should take that in. Food’s getting cold.”

Layla nodded, feeling like they were opposite poles of a magnet as she pried herself away from Warren’s vicinity. It really did cost her a little turn around and head inside.

“Hey,” he said at her back, voice low and inviting. His heavy shoes took two steps in some direction – closer or further, Layla couldn’t tell. “Wait up.”

Layla turned – only to find Warren’s chest very close. It shifted backwards and then Warren’s face lowered into view in front of her. Her heart sped up. _I just made a date with Warren,_ Layla realized dimly _. I made a date with Warren, and now, now he’s going to kiss me_. Her heart kicked up the mass of butterflies in her stomach, making the darn little buggers cavort and spin in a frenzy.

But something in his face made her freeze.

It wasn’t like in the movies, where the girl suddenly realizes the boy is drop-dead gorgeous and must stop to catch her breath. Layla had eyes: she knew Warren was handsome ever since the first, sad day at The Paper Lantern. It hadn’t affected her too badly before (Layla had a hard time working up emotion for a guy whose heart she didn’t know) but now, even as the strong line of his jaw made her heart shudder, the fact that he was gorgeous _wasn’t_ the source of the full-body prickling suddenly holding her still.

It was his eyes. His hauntingly, oddly familiar eyes. _I’ve never been so close to Warren’s face. Where have I seen them before? It’s important, it’s really, really important._

“I…” She drew back before she could think better of it, frantic to catch the all-important bit of information eluding her. She blinked, trying to place the odd familiarity - and only then realized she’d probably offended him. “Oh no! I didn’t mean to - “

Warren had turned away, his shoulders shaking.

Layla panicked. “I’m so sorry -!”

But a second later, Warren let out a mighty guffaw, and Layla’s breath returned in a rush.

He turned. It was a real sight, seeing Warren laugh with abandon. His entire face lit up and a wave of warmth hit Layla, if due to his odd, abnormal body heat or her own racing heart, she didn’t know. “You are,” he said, words shaky from laughter, “the single weirdest girl on the face of the Earth.” He raised a hand and drew a finger gently over Layla’s exposed shoulder. “It’s OK hippie. I can wait.”

“Wha - you can?”

“Sure. No big.” He brushed a thumb over Layla’s cheekbone. He chuckled low in his stomach when she eased into the warmth - sunflowers always hold their faces to the sun. “I’ll be calling you.”

“Not if I call you first.”

“I’ve got your number.”

“You do not!”

“You called us for your order. Duh.”

Layla gasped. “Well, I’ll ask Yun Tan! I’ll let you know she’s my personal ally!”

“Whatever you say, hippie.” He smiled disarmingly. Then he plopped the helmet on his head, winked...and Layla felt the bottom of her stomach drop out.  
  
The helmet was black. It was a proper one, probably compliant with every bike safety regulation there was, with buckles and a visor and a full-face shield that only left a sliver of Warren’s upper face visible.

Like a ski mask. Or…like a black balaclava hat.

And the eyes she’d just been about to see up close were the very same ones she’d been gazing into for days and days, trying to get the one sliver of the Jack-O-Lantern to tell her something about their owner.

Layla would never remember what face she made as Warren left or how she got back into the house. The next thing she remembered after the thunder strike of realization was the familiar entry hall of her house, the solid reality of the front door against her back and the floor against her rump. _Just when I stopped trying to find him…. he finds me._

* * *

Layla spent the following week in agony. One minute, she was sure Will had to be informed about her suspicion _right now_ , but the next she was sure it was a huge misunderstanding and of course, she shouldn’t speak a word to anyone about it ever. She’d wondered if Warren had a twin, if she should confront him first - or maybe even enlist the Cook and Yun Tan for help. For all of a second she’d considered trying to find help with his parents, but the way Warren talked about his mother had led Layla to think she was either a quirky recluse…or an actual inpatient at a mental hospital.

There was no word about Warren’s father from anyone, not ever, and so Layla had wisely opted never to ask herself.

Layla also beat herself up over being so dim. In hindsight, Warren hadn’t even been trying to hide; it was as if he _wanted_ to be found and relieved of the burden of hiding. It was all there: his exhaustion, which matched The Jack-O-Lantern’s exploits. How very sensitive he got over people’s opinions about The Jack-o-Lantern. How, despite how many times Layla had spit her guts at him, he’d never mentioned the topic of metahumans. The heat constantly emanating from his body – fire manipulators enjoyed high temperatures. That would have been Warren creating a pleasant environment for himself.

She didn’t go to The Paper Lantern, or order takeout. She felt a little fluttering of fear every time her cellphone rang, then felt a little fluttering of disappointment every time it wasn’t Warren.

But there was no pause button on life, not even as Layla fretted with information that could very literally change lives. After a tense but uneventful week, on the very Friday that Layla had set apart to wash her hair, an emergency message again heralded an incoming emergency call. 

“Hello?”

“Layla, you have got to head to the old meat packing plant in the Chesterville sector.”

“What? But -”

“They’ve set him up. I didn’t know. Neither did Mom or Dad. They’re luring him in with a fake tip about a kidnapped child,” panted Will, tone alive with a worry Layla had never heard in nearly ten years of friendship. “We’re on our way, but we won’t make it. It has to be you.”

Layla sat down heavily, the towel around her head unfurling. Even as she searched for the strength to get up and figure out what she’d wear (and what a turn of phrase that was, exclusive to teenaged girls and superheroes perhaps), she wondered at how different real life was from the movies. _If this were a movie, there would have been a ton of build-up to the big reveal._

“Layla?”

“I’m here, Will.” Now Layla was breathing hard too. “Tell me how to get there.”

Will recited an address and street directions with the tense clarity of an air traffic controller. “You’ll have to improvise a mask and things. We can’t get Ron or anyone, any _thing_ to you – we’re in Europe right now. Even if we started heading home now, we’d still take two hours.” As if to highlight the situation, a loud metallic crash was heard in the background of Will’s call.

“Will!”

“I’m OK!” But the call was suddenly full of the whoosh of air. “Focus on the emergency over there, alright? We’ll manage.”

Layla was on her own. There was no real choice in the matter.

* * *

The long-since closed meat packing plant was alive that night. The foamy contents of fire extinguishers decorated the external walls like spray-on snow on a Christmas tree, broken here and there by scorch marks. Shouts, clatters and the _fwoosh_ of extinguishers still broke the night’s silence as Layla, barefaced and in her sweats, padded her way through the half empty parking lot. 

She couldn’t be Acacia Thorn tonight - she didn’t have time to lose. It would be Layla Williams, plant manipulator and Chinese food enthusiast, out to save The Jack-O-Lantern tonight.

Layla made a few rose bushes bloom through the asphalt, their thorns elongating wickedly to prick clean into the tires of the large police truck and the sleek white cargo trailer attached to it. She couldn’t sabotage every squad car, not without arousing suspicion. But even though she’d never been close to a metahuman capture operation, Layla knew it on sight: the nondescript trailer attached to the truck had to be the power suppression cage. If all else failed, she’d have to try and break him out of it. _Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that._

The rest of the blockade, crawling with officers, required some ingenuity. After some careful thought and flying her own sock in the wind for direction, Layla made a host of friendly fungi grow and mature on the side of a building, releasing a cloud of spores upon the idling police cars.

As sneezes resounded and eyes watered, Layla ran through the cars with her head down and dove into the labyrinthine building.

The chase had long since moved deep into the building, so of course the first hallway she entered was empty. All the same, Layla felt a leaden weight lodge itself into her stomach: this had been a meat processing plant. Even her mother couldn’t chat with animals once they’d…departed…and thank heaven for that, but in the midst of her nerves Layla felt like the ghosts of the building’s heyday were right there, almost touching her.

She took a deep breath and barreled down the hallway all the same, ears pricked for the sound of people.

* * *

Two near encounters with police in full riot gear, about 30 minutes of being completely lost and one epic fall later, Layla finally found what she was looking for. The building’s aged fire alarm had started up at some point, the wailing loud and disruptive to her thoughts – every instinct told Layla to flee, but every better judgement helped her stay her ground. She stumbled into a large room – an old storage area maybe – just in time to see a single black shape flee from one end of the room to another. 

“Warren?” There was no answer. She’d either run into a cop or frightened Warren into hiding. “Warren, it’s me. It’s Layla.” Silence greeted her. Layla huffed. “Warren, for the love of – we’re trying to help you.”

“…hippie?” There was a crash as a pile of ancient boxes Layla hadn’t noticed half fell, half disintegrated to reveal her quarry. Reeking of sweat and smoke, Warren lumbered out. Layla ran to him. He was breathing hard, and the remnants of something sharp and invasive (pepper spray perhaps, tear gas, oh no) lingered about him.

“It’s really me,” Layla whispered, running a thumb over the sliver of his face that remained visible. Her finger came away saturated in sweat.

Warren gaped at her for another minute, then threw his arms around her. “I can’t believe it. I thought you were just bizarre, but you really seem to have a death wish, hippie.”

Pressed against his shoulder, Layla managed a watery laugh. “Warren. Listen, we can help you. Will is completely against your going to jail. If you just surrender yourself -”

“Then I’ll be dead. And so will all of you...”

“No! See, Will can help you -”

“First of all, what does your ex-boyfriend have to do with all of this.”

“He’s The Lieutenant. From the Stronghold Three.”

Warren heaved a ragged sigh. “He’s The Commander’s kid.” Then he cursed so colorfully, Layla’s ears went red.

“Anyway, he really wants to help – “

“He can’t.”

“But- “

“Listen, hippie. I didn’t fall for the kidnapping thing for a second.” He reached up and dragged the balaclava off his face roughly, getting stuck for a second in his haste. “Trouble is, my…dad’s been keeping an eye on the news. And he figured he’d be up for a bit of fun if I wasn’t.” When Layla didn’t answer, Warren took a deep breath. “My dad’s Barron Battle. The Pyromaniac.”

Layla gasped. “But he was -”

“Exactly, hippie. Was.” Warren dragged a hand through his hair in frustration. “He’s been on the loose since Wednesday evening. Which is also why I never called back about the flower show.” He chuckled, and Layla had to make a big effort not to throw herself on him.

“I wasn’t sure if I wanted to you call or not after I figured it out.”

“You’re here, though.” Warren chuckled again. “Anyway, Dad’s not at his best. It won’t be long before they pin him down. But he’s been giving this place a beating. He meant to have one last hurrah. Go out with a bang -” Warren’s witticism was interrupted with a cough.

Layla thought fast. “This place is a death trap, isn’t it.”

“Got it in one. I don’t think he meant to take me down with him, but something exploded, or shorted out or didn’t work. We’re lost in a death trap.” 

That was unacceptable: Layla’s thoughts raced. “OK, I have an idea. Give me some room…” It took great effort, but Layla found little pockets of humidity where just enough life could bloom and take. Small patches of fungi struggled out from the corners as Warren stared. Layla coaxed them into glowing - bioluminescence. “Here’s the plan. I think I can find the way out, and these guys,” she pointed to her fungi “can help us. Like emergency lights after a plane crash.”

Warren huffed slightly in laughter | “So you’re Acacia Thorn. I knew it.”

Layla turned to him in indignation. No way! I was careful!”

“The plants at the restaurant always perked up when you came around. Dead giveaway.” He laughed, then choked on his dry throat. “Leave it to you, hippie, to come galloping to the rescue like this.” He reached out for her hand, gripping it tightly.

“What now?”

“We need to make them think I’m the arsonist they’re looking for, and lead them out.”

“Should we split up -”

“No,” said Warren immediately, clutching Layla’s hand. “I’m half blind and very tired. I’ll need you.”

Silently, Layla clasped back. She was glad they wouldn’t break up, because she needed him too.”

* * *

  
It was like Hansel and Gretel. Every so often, Warren would use his pyrokinesis and make a small fireball in his hand, or just shove things, making them fall down noisily or thump heavily. There’d be a hush, then a discrete padding, and then he and Layla were on the run again.

By the time they made it out, first responders, fire trucks, even more police and a half moon of curious civilians, only somewhat held at bay by barricades and yellow ribbon, flooded the area.

At the sight of the, cops poured out of the remaining cruisers. Layla had always wanted to live in a movie (for a little bit at least, it sounded hellish long-term) but the sight of the huge contingent put together to “stop” them really put things into perspective. A few even ducked behind their cars, using them as barricades as well. _This…it could be it._ Then someone shouted “hostage!” and suddenly Layla was unspeakably thankful for her lack of costume. Her movements purely instinctual, she darted in front of Warren, her back to his chest. They couldn’t shoot civilian hostages.

A crackly voice came over a megaphone. _“Release the girl and put both hands to the floor!”_

“I’m not The Pyromaniac!” Warren shouted back.

_“Release the girl and put both hands to the floor!”_

“I AM NOT THE GUY YOU ARE AFTER.”

Karma being the…uh, beeotch it was, a sudden thumping and knocking sound came from behind them – the cops they’d been leading to safety were about to burst onto the scene. She and Warren were surrounded and badly outnumbered. All of the forces on site were prepared to deal with a pyrokineticist – Warren saving them was out. And, hard as she thought, Layla could think of no way to immobilize so many cops without a gun going off.

“Layla,” whispered a gruff voice in her ear. “Layla, you should run. Leave me here.”

I thought you didn’t know what my name was, she thought, giddy from nervous adrenaline. “I can’t. I won’t. If I move, they’ll take you down.”

“They might not shoot me.”

“No, but they might put you away for life for vigilantism!”

“It was a risk I was willing to take. Some causes -”

“Are worth dying for, I know. Well,” spluttered Layla, “my cause right now is keeping you alive, so I’m not moving and you can’t make me!” She would have turned to eye him aggressively, if only that hadn’t meant releasing him.

The next few minutes, or seconds, or maybe hours, passed by in a blur of sirens and light. The world contracted to their harsh breaths, Warren’s chest expanding and contracting behind her, sweat trickling down her hair until both her pigtails were heavy and damp.

And then a rush of wind, like a chopper landing but gentler, set hairs to flight and gasps: the unmistakable heralds to the arrival of Jetstream. And, wherever Jetstream was, The Commander and his son were never too far behind – not the least because The Commander couldn’t fly, so either her or his son had to carry him around.

 _Safe_ , thought Layla with relief. _Safe_ _at last_.

Will touched down a second after his mother, setting his father on his feet. He met Layla’s eyes and raised a hand palm up. _Wait_.

The Commander traipsed grandly into the barricade. Jetstream soared to a point overhead, diagonal to where Layla and Warren were sandwiched between two walls of cops. Will stayed where he had landed, half turned to keep an eye on Layla and another in his father’s general direction. Nobody moved.

A command must have been issued over earpieces, because the dual wall of cops lowered their weapons. They didn’t break ranks. They didn’t even move.

And suddenly Will was widening his eyes at Layla.

The ensuing exchange only worked because it was Will and her. Warren would later admit he’d noticed, but understood nothing.

It went like this: Will was moving minutely, trying not to call attention to himself. He raised his arms a little over his head, as if he were throwing a basketball into a hoop. Raise your arms, Layla understood. Then, he made one hand zoom straight ahead. I’ll…

“Oh no.”

“What’s up.”

“I think Will wants to be our getaway driver!”

“And how’s he gonna do that?”

“We…have to raise our arms and wait.”

“Holy shit, you’re serious.”

“Warren, this is literally our one chance. The only reason we haven’t been pounced on and separated is because nobody’s told them that I’m not a hostage.” Layla carefully raised her arms.

“They’ll think I’m surrendering, hippie.”

“I think that’s what Will wants.”

Layla felt Warren shift against her back. The surrounding cops reacted, keeping their weapons down but otherwise alert and ready. Layla sought Will’s eyes desperately: he raised three fingers.

He lowered one.

He lowered two.

In seconds, a mighty push and a whoosh of air swallowed the cry of outrage that started as soon as Layla felt her feet leave the ground. Warren cursed.

Will adjusted his grip midair (which involved a few blood-freezing seconds of free fall) to have one arm around each of their waists. As soon as she was able, Layla adjusted her grip to hug both her boys, her silly, courageous best friend and her even sillier, even braver, even more ridiculous…something. Date? Possible boyfriend?

I can work on the precise label later.

Warren looked dazedly to both sides. “Wow.”

“Will, we did it! We saved The Jack-O-Lantern!”

“Sure did.”

“…alright. Thank you, Stronghold.” Temper somewhat quelled by the shock and their distance from the Earth, Warren didn’t even try to be ironic. He even patted Will’s arm around his waist awkwardly.

“Hey, you’re one of the good guys. We had to do something.”

Warren threw Will a bewildered look. “You drink the same crazy water that the hippie does, don’t you.”

In response, Will simply looked at him, kind politeness in his eyes. “There is no crazy water. Layla just…takes root and corrupts you.”

Warren had to put up a real fight to not laugh at that. Layla’s heart fluttered.

“OK guys. Where to?”

Layla raised her hand as if they were in school. “I have a suggestion!”

* * *

It ended (or started), as it all did: at the Paper Lantern.

As the same old radio from last time blasted a harried news report about The Jack-o-Lantern’s escape from a complex military sting, The Pyromaniac’s recapture and the fate of both a female hostage and The Lieutenant, three figures stalked towards a little Chinese restaurant.

Yun Tan’s eyebrows nearly hit her hairline when Warren, his hand locked into Layla’s, lumbered into the restaurant, the acrid scent of smoke hanging all over him like a veil. Her mouth dropped wide open when The Lieutenant ducked in behind the couple, smiling sheepishly and offering her a short “hey” before following the other two. They sat at Layla’s table, Warren at her side, Will in front of her. There were no flowers in the vase.

“Ah shit,” said Warren softly, flicking the empty vase.

“It’s OK, I’m sure Yun Tan’s been busy.”

“…I kinda thought we’d reached the night’s quota for surprises, but OK.” Warren said, amused. “You ever saw flowers at any other table?”

“Oh!”

“It’s how I noticed they kept changing.”

The cook poked her head out of the pick-up window and joined Yun Tan’s staring contest until Layla peeked around Warren. “Um, menus please?”

“S’OK,” said Will, “the only thing I like that doesn’t involve like fifty broken pairs of chopsticks is ramen. With a fork, please?”

Warren stared at the table fixedly. “Hunan spicy beef.”

“Can I have the Mapo Tofu, please?”

Warren turned to stare at her. Layla patted his arm.

“I like it, I just didn’t have an appetite that one time.”

Yun Tan looked at each of them in shock before turning and all but running, not to the pick-up window, but into the kitchen itself.

The three sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the radio and the familiar sounds of the restaurant.

“So…” began Will unsurely, “I hear I’m supposed to give you the ‘what are your intentions towards my little sister’ third degree.”

Layla perked up, horrified at her best friend. _“Will!”_

Warren’s only answer was a long, dispassionate “Hmmm.”

“I know,” answered Will, as if Layla weren’t eyeing him and squirming. “I think it’s ridiculous too. Particularly after what Layla did to the power suppression chamber - clearly she doesn’t need me to beat you up.”

“Not that you could if you wanted to,” clarified Warren with a hint of a smile.

“OK, caught me there,” said Will with many a nod. “So…how’s about I leave it at ‘’she’s my bestie please treat her right”?

“Hmmm.”

Layla frowned at both of them, but the timely intervention of Yun Tan, returning with a plate of wontons none of them had ordered, spared them the awkwardness.

Or so Layla thought. “Hey. Stronghold.”

“Yeah?”

Warren looked back down at the table. “Well…thank you. For…not letting your Dad freeze me.”

Will laughed. “Well, thank you for not frying me like a bun for every time Layla was here, crying over my sorry ass.”

“Well, when you put it that way -” Warren laid his arm on the table and cupped his empty hand. His body heat against Layla’s side rose.

“OKAY, STOP.” Layla stretched her own arm and shoved her hand into Warren’s. “I’ve had enough fire for tonight, thank you!”

Warren and Will both laughed at her, and Layla blushed. _Well...at least they look like they're getting friendly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Yuletide, rosestone!
> 
> I know this wasn't star-chart perfect alignment with your dearest wishes. See, I've got to confess I cannot write polyamoury to save my life - which is a shame, because I've prided myself in doing PRECISELY what my recipient has their heart set on, and I knew I'd be unable to do a good job if I did it this once. The upside is that it pushed me to really work hard at what I did end up attempting - and I really had fun! I hope you've also had fun in this fic by the time you make it to this note.
> 
> Your prompts were all awesome and really got my imagination doing sit-ups, which is something I'll have to remember for next Yuletide. I wish you a very merry rest of December :)


End file.
